


i've tasted blood ( and it is sweet )

by dormant_bender



Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst and Feels, Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Compliant, Avengers: Infinity War Part 1 (Movie) Spoilers, Character Turned Into a Ghost, Dark, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt Peter Quill, Mental Breakdown, Mild Blood, Minor Gamora/Peter Quill, Minor Violence, Nightmares, Peter Quill Feels, Post-Movie: Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2, Psychological Torture, Tags Contain Spoilers, Temporary Character Death, Timeline What Timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-30
Updated: 2019-12-30
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:46:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21976075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dormant_bender/pseuds/dormant_bender
Summary: Peter Quill remembers the feel of coolness overtaking his limbs just before he blacks out.When he wakes up, however, he meets a whole new set of horrors that greet him each time he wakes up.
Relationships: Ego the Living Planet/Meredith Quill, Gamora & Peter Quill, Gamora/Peter Quill
Comments: 6
Kudos: 36





	i've tasted blood ( and it is sweet )

**Author's Note:**

> this story has mildly dark themes that revolve around peter and the theoretical place that he may have went after the snap, but i promise it's nothing triggering.
> 
> enjoy xx

  
  


  
  


An overwhelming sense of foreboding. Icy coolness spreading like a disease through his veins. Glassy eyes stare straight ahead and brows furrow as he stares at the man before him. Perplexity, apprehension and — fear . . ? 

  


" _Oh man_ . . . "

  


  


-

  


  


His lungs are positively burning, sending him into a bitter coughing fit as he clamors to sit upright. His hands clutch at his chest and to his throat and back. His body shudders as the sensation returns to the rest of his limbs — that sickly, static feeling pulsating through his toes, his fingertips, his heart.

  


Another cough and he swears the sight of dust, dirt and grime spews from his mouth. He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand, fights to remember just how he had gotten there in the first place. Wherever "there" was, as in: there wasn't much to begin with.

  


It was dark, ominously so, absolutely nothing in the balance to indicate light of any kind. He had been swallowed by some outrageous abyss, it seemed, with no clear exit sign on display. 

  


"Think it's a little too early to be in hell already," murmurs the brunet as he pats at the baseless ground beneath him; black like everything else, so much so it seems to consume his hand to where it disappears completely until he instinctively retracts it.

  


"Peter —" Some familiar yet distance, disembodied voice calls to him: "Peter, baby . . . "

  


Almost instantaneously the man is struggling onto wobbling legs to search for the source. "I—No, it can't be—" He glances about the darkness, squints to peer through: "mom?"

  


Peter feels the bitter prick of bile crawling up his throat, but he swallows it down. His legs propel him forward with no real destination as he searches for the voice that beckons him nearer, yet the more he sprints through the darkness, no nearer does he come to the sound. Soft giggles erupt from the source, as if amused by the struggles he was enduring, finding humor in watching him run in an endless loop of pitch darkness.

  


But he doesn't stop, feels a sense of purpose in the repetitive actions. He doesn't know how long he had been at it, but after what felt like a lifetime, he was heaving and choking in gasps of air, bent over with hands on his knees for support. Sweat steadily trickles down his brow, down the sides of his face. His shirt is absolutely drenched, clinging to fit him like a second skin.

  


When he finally straightens and regains composure, the figure of his mother is standing there observing him silently. She looks like he had last remembered her to — head shaved and smooth, skin that same sickly and perspired pale, cheeks gaunt and face filled with nothing but angles. 

  


She wears a small smile on her lips as she regards him, arms folded neatly across her chest. As soon as he sets into motion, letting all rational thought go, he rushes forward into her arms that open mechanically to receive him. Meredith holds onto him tightly, completely dwarfed by the son who now towered above her. 

  


Peter's fingers curl into the thin material of her hospital gown, hearing it crunch beneath his ministrations. He hunches forward, burying his face within her perspired neck, highlighted by the greenish-blue veins that press against her tight skin. He inhales and she smells like the hospital — antiseptic, sterilizers and the red jello she frequented (and oftentimes slid toward him when he would visit). 

  


"My handsome baby's all grown up," comes her southern drawl as she cradles his head, fingers absently patting down the sweaty and disheveled strands there. "Hush now and stop that crying, Peter, baby."

  


"Are you — Is this really — _Mom_ . . . " 

  


Tears roll down the planes of his cheeks and pool at the sharp protrusion of Meredith's collar bones. She continues to hush him, however, consoling him after more than thirty years of being separated. "Now, baby, mama's here now and I'm not goin' anywhere. So, don't you worry, boy."

  


"I lost you, mom—" Peter croaks, holding her impossibly close. "And dad, I met that son of a bitch, that colossal asshole of a—"

  


"—Language, baby—"

  


"—Mom, he—"

  


Meredith withdraws from the embrace to place both of her bony hands upon his shoulders, sliding a hand up to cradle his cheek, swiping away a stray tear with her thumb. "I know what he did," counters the woman with a melancholy smile: "and Lord knows I have forgiven him. But he had given me the greatest gift, to which I am forever grateful for." Peter feels his cheeks flush with the rush of fury that floods his veins all over again, fists clenching into tight balls.

  


He shakes off the gentle hands upon him in favor of shuffling a few feet away, shoulders hunched forward and murmuring curses beneath his breath because _how_ — how could she _ever_ say those words and forgive such a _disaster_ of human being who would curse her with such a tragic ending? 

  


The sound of the hospital gown crinkles as she comes nearer, but she doesn't make to touch him again, just maintains a suitable distance. "I don't expect you to understand, baby, but it isn't good to harbor such hatred in your heart." 

  


Peter glances over his shoulder at the frail woman, who extends a hand out toward him. "You don't understand what he did, you're sayin' that cuz you don't know that he — "

  


"Won't you hold your mama's hand, baby?"

  


Peter feels his lips clamp closed at the sound of her voice, sounding so quiet and broken. He turns on his heel, his hands remaining stiff at his sides, head canting to the side as he looks upon her; she looks to be fading away, like tiny shards of her from her bare feet and up are disappearing before his eyes.

  


"No, no, no . . . " Peter repeats like a mantra, raising a hand at a sluggish pace from his side, moving in slow motion as he attempts to reach the hand before it, too, disappears before him: "Not again, no, no, no — "

  


Meredith offers a parting smile in the wake of the hand disintegrating just before his fingertips can grace her skin, tears sliding down her sullen cheeks. "Mama loves you, baby." Before he could reroute his fingers to her face, her countenance bursts into a million shards, fading into the liquid darkness beneath his feet.

  


Once more: he was alone in the darkness, alone in the abyss that was his mind.

  


He collapses in a heap onto the glossy, black ground and before he can curse the fever dream, he finds his lids heavy like lead drooping until he smacks onto the floor with an audible ' _thud!_ '

  


  


-

  


  


This time when he comes to consciousness, there was no blackness at all — in fact: the whole world had warped into a memory he had resented, to which he had failed the one he _loved_ the most at the moment where it _mattered_ the most. Flurries of fire blossom all around him, surrounding him and the two others in a fiery pit of billowing smoke and smoldering flames that singe whatever is closest.

  


Anxious perspiration consumes his form as he aims the quad blaster square at Thanos' wrinkly, ball sack ridden face. Within the purple bastard's clutches is a restrained Gamora, who regards him with a desperation, dark eyes glossy and pleading with him. "Not him— . . . " She breathes, seeing the hesitation. "You promised! _You promised_ . . . " Her voice breaks upon the word, pleading with him to follow through.

  


And he does, how could he deny her anything, let alone a promise he had sworn to keep? So, he lowers the quad blaster until it is aimed at the broken beauty before him; he hopes his countenance is enough to convey how apologetic he is about the exchange, how he wishes it could all be different and that he could be on the receiving end of the barrel.

  


Everything else is a blur until right before he pulls the trigger — the moment pausing just as she says "I love you, more than anything." Her face is frozen in its contentment, knowing that he would fulfill his side of the gut-wrenching deal. Her body had gone rigid and still, accepting of her fate, yet her eyes still clenched tight knowing she was saying her final, inevitable good-byes to the only man she had loved.

  


The smug form of his father materializes, wearing a broad smirk as he regards the green-skinned woman and her horrible excuse for a father. "Would you looky here?" He blows out a whistle, motioning toward the blaster pointed at Gamora, as if impressed. "Isn't this the definition of the pot calling the kettle black?"

  


"Ego . . . "

  


"Would it kill ya' to call me ' dad ' for once, Peter, c'mon now." He tugs loosely at his graying beard, observing the situation with a sense of haughtiness. "Finally coming to your senses about this whole ' love ' thing, are you?"

  


Peter attempts to move, but discovers that he was also frozen in time — the latter should consider himself lucky for that, perhaps grateful even, because if he was able to move, he would have certainly destroyed the man once and for all. "You arrogant son of a bitch — "

  


"Lighten up, why don't ya'? All my life I searched for a purpose, Peter. And you know what? I made some tough choices, a tumor here and there, but it took that loss — a _profound loss_ to discover what genuinely mattered." Ego strolls around the frozen bodies of Gamora and Thanos, appraising the mad titan with awe, jerking a thumb toward him with an impressed nod. "Power, Peter, the power to create—" He brings his hands together and then apart, forming a small clockwise moving sphere that resembled Earth. "and the power to destroy." He abruptly smashes his hands together, rubbing them against one another until dust scatters from his palm.

  


"You killed my mother—" Peter spat fiercely, struggling to move from his entrapment. "You took everything from me and I plan on shoving my foot so far up your ass that your balls will be your new tonsils, you David Hasselhoff wannabe asshole!" 

  


"Kids never learn." Ego chastises with a click of his tongue: "you really should respect your father. After-all, I gave you life. I gave you an existence far more feasible than you could ever imagine and you have yet to appreciate it — better yet, to _thank_ me for it. But just you watch, Peter, I'll help you share my vision." Time seems to resume then, but no one notices the man and his presence except Peter. "It takes a loss, Peter." 

  


Ego saunters closer to the brunet, who strains against some unseen captor, and applies pressure to his fingers until the trigger is pulled. Instead of bubbles, however, an actual hail of bullets exits the barrel of the gun and pierces into Gamora, much to Thanos' chagrin. Peter can hardly breathe, chest hollow as ever as he heaves in and out, a knot the size of a fist forming within the back of his throat.

  


Her body falls into a weak, lifeless slump within the arms of Thanos, who looks as grief-stricken and bewildered as Peter feels. He disappears, then, taking the lifeless body of Gamora with him. And finally, Peter is released from his hold, falling to his knees and burying his face within his hands.

  


He feels himself retching, but yet no bile arises from his throat, seemingly trapped just at the back and unable to expel. Ego is still there, chuckling his amusement, throwing his head back with the force of his laughter. "Move on, Peter. I did." He scolds once more: "Look at me now, I am the most powerful being in the universe."

  


Peter moves in a flurry as he swiftly retrieves the blaster, sending shot after shot spiraling after the phantom of Ego, who withers away into nothingness long before the barrel is empty. His head feels too heavy to hold up as he slumps back down onto the ground, legs splayed out weakly before him, tears streaming down his face.

  


"Gamora, I — I didn't mean to — _Gamora_ — . . . " 

  


He doesn't know who he was talking to, there was no one there. With a simple blink, everything is back to the same black pit that he dwelled in the day (millennium?) before. His head is swimming like he was a thousand meters beneath the sea, like if he opens his mouth to inhale, he'll swallow liters of water that would certainly condemn him to the vile death of drowning. His green eyes roll back into his head, falling back into the inky blackness that seems to invitingly caress him as he falls into a slumber. 

  


  


-

  


  


Neon colored floating lights dart around the black top of the underground night club, illuminating gyrating bodies and overly-aggressive suitors, insisting on buying drinks for the pink-skinned beauties dancing on the bar counter. Any other day Peter Quill may have been intrigued by the sight of the disheveled beauties swirling their hips to the hypnotic beat blasting through the speakers, but he can't even dare glance that away — let alone entertain the one who glides a hand up his bicep, squeezing appreciatively.

  


Jade eyes dart toward the green-skinned woman across the room leaning against a spray-painted beam, arms crossed over her leather-clad chest. Her dark eyes scan the room in search of the over-powered Terran hinted to have been in possession of one of the mysterious totems stolen from the collector.

  


He doesn't dare question the state that he was in, sitting with a concoction of vomit-colored liquid within a glass in one hand, the other gliding over his hardening cock. Her head bobs to the beat unconsciously, gaze flickering about until lingering upon him, lids narrowing at the sight of the pink-skinned woman fondling his bicep still.

  


"That's my girl," murmurs the brunet beneath his breath as the woman approaches him. "That's right, come to daddy." The pink-skinned woman assumes the words are directed at her, and he doesn't fight the other hand that travels up his bicep to his shoulders.

  


Before she can lean in, glossy lips parting to perhaps taste the sweat that trickles down his cheek, she is swiftly yanked away by the wrist. "Touch him again and I will wear your head as a crown." 

  


The pink lady doesn't argue and pulls her wrist away, detaching from the woman and eagerly scampering away. Peter exhales with a whistle, eyes meeting Gamora's heated gaze. "What can I say, I've got groupies." Gamora makes a noncommittal noise of disapproval.

  


"It is absolutely sickening," enunciates Gamora as she yanks him by the collar of his leather jacket toward the dance floor: "how these Krylorians insist on panting around like pathetic varren on the hunt."

  


Part of him wants to believe that this memory is real, unlike the other experiences prior, yet he knows that it must be equally as fabricated. Even when the relationship between the two had become official, there was still a non-verbal agreement that public displays of affection were off limits. However, as he follows her toward the center of the dance floor of vibrating bodies, he slips into the alternate reality and temporarily suspends that this, too, would end like the rest.

  


But for now he could pretend. 

  


For now he could keep a keen eye on the sway of her hips as she confidently saunters through the throng of bodies surrounding the general vicinity. He could submerge himself in how she forcibly grabs the front of his jacket to face him, starting to sway to the beat. He can smile effortlessly at the woman, who scowls at him for allowing the subtle flirting to continue, even despite being so openly claimed by her.

  


"Did I upgrade from occasional booty call to boyfriend already?"

  


"Feeling emboldened, Peter?"

  


Peter slides his hands from the center of her back down to the swell of her ass, pulling her in closer toward the contours of his body. "Does this count?"

  


"It isn't wise to try your luck." Gamora hisses her annoyance but allows it nonetheless. She picks up on the fluid grind of his hips, reciprocating with an impressive ease as she settles into the movements. "And if your hand drops any lower, Peter Quill, I won't hesitate to break every finger on your hand."

  


The hardness in his denim jeans is almost unbearable at this point, finding her vague threats as some repressed form of foreplay. "Gams — "

  


"What?" Gamora snaps, softening upon the adoring glint in his green eyes. "What is it, Peter?"

  


"I — I love you." 

  


Gamora scoffs at that, nose crinkling in disdain. Her head bows toward the grimy and alcohol encrusted floor. "Love," she repeats the word and it singes her tongue. When she glances up, she has emerald blood oozing from her head and scalp, matting her hair to the sides of her face. "What did it cost?"

  


Her voice sounds lifeless and void of emotion as she speaks, the entire room spinning and convoluted into a state of black. Dark eyes, usually bright and fond when she looks upon him, are nearly as black as the state of the realm. She tightens the grip on the front of his leather jacket and shakes him vigorously, demanding him again: 

  


"What was the cost of your love, Peter?" Gamora queries once more, words sounding like she had been gargling gravel. "This is all your fault," hisses the woman in reproach. Her nails, black and broken, curl into the jacket until he feels the prick of them scratching into his chest. "You did this to me, no one else." 

  


"I did what you wanted — " Peter croaks, body going rigid. "I tried to follow through but Thanos— "

  


Gamora releases a humorless and bitter laugh into the air, shoving him far back until he stumbles to maintain footing. "You — " she points a finger at him, tone accusatory. "You had the opportunity, yet my father outsmarted you." A dribble of blood trickles from her bottom lip, smearing across her chin as it drips steadily. "My father accomplished what you could not."

  


"You know I would have given myself up if I could have." Peter persists, taking a daring step forward toward the enraged woman; she stops him with a raised hand. "He had the gauntlet, he had the stones."

  


"You were weak — in soul and body and that had nothing to do with my father, Peter." Gamora's words cut like the blade she always wielded, eyes set aflame and mouth set in a firm line. "You could have saved the universe had it not been for your childish antics and outburst." She slides the blade out of its holder, admiring it with a derisive snort. "This is why you were condemned here for eternity, for failing me. For failing the universe. For failing your mother." She pauses thoughtfully, managing to look almost apologetic: "for failing yourself."

  


Peter makes one last lunge toward the woman, who seems to sense it, crumbling into tiny pieces that pool beneath the sole of his boots. He eases down onto his knees, cautious and hesitant, fingers brushing tenderly over the remnants of dust Gamora had left behind. He cups some of the dust within his fist, squeezing it within his hand.

  


He looks up — there was nothing there, not really, just the darkness of the realm he had been mercilessly thrust into — and ponders briefly whether heaven genuinely existed or not. He wondered if that was where his mother and Gamora were, overlooking him in the darkness of his despair, fighting desperately to free him of this hell.

  


Unlike the other times, slumber doesn't overcome him. He just lays there on his back, staring up at the inky blackness above, fingers stroking gingerly over the ashes left behind. And if tears streak his cheeks, he doesn't acknowledge them, just welcomes the serenity that it brings.

  
  
  
  


  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> i kind of want to write more about what else he could be experiencing and seeing and maybe add more characters like yondu eventually 
> 
> we shall see
> 
> comments, questions, concerns ? <3 x


End file.
